


You take my breath away

by PrimeJive



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s Era Freddie Mercury, 1970s Era Queen (Band), 1970s Era Roger Taylor (Queen), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Cheating, Denial, Dirty Talk, Freddie's POV, Froger Week 2020, Hiding a Relationship, M/M, Original Character(s), Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Toxic Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27723782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrimeJive/pseuds/PrimeJive
Summary: Freddie and Roger have been in a relationship for two years. Freddie thinks it's time to stop hiding from the world. Roger is not on the same page.Love can also break your heart if it only exists behind closed doors.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Original Male Character(s), Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 23
Kudos: 30
Collections: The Froger Week 2020





	1. You take my breath away: part I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! How are you, darlings?  
> This is my contribution to FrogerWeek 2020. 
> 
> Prompt: Hiding their relationship.
> 
> Warning: Angst/Smut/Explicit.

**Take my breath away**

_"You know me well enough to realize that I avoid the issue because I know you're right"_

Lying in our bed, staring at the ceiling, your words, Roger, are echoing in my head over and over. And it’s funny, because you’re by my side, curled up against me, asleep, with your right arm strongly attached to my waist in the middle of the sepulchral silence of the night. Your breathing, soft and subdued, is the only hint that you are still alive. But seriously, your body almost seems like in _rigor mortis_. Deep in sleep. Too deep for my taste. 

Only your voice is still alive in my head, deep inside. Scratching, bleeding... Abominably occupying everything.

But the worst thing is not your words, Rog. Not really.

What is terrible is the cadence of them. The way you said them... Sitting on the couch while holding the TV’s remote in your hand, giving me a condescending smile. It took you half a minute to return the attention to the show you were watching, and almost scornfully you passed your arm distractedly behind my back. There wasn’t even a little, tiny hint of remorse on each of those syllables that came out of your mouth, so sharply and carelessly.

I hated you, with the same fierce strength that I love you. I wanted to hit you so damn hard you’d had to immobilize me. Until you had to realize the seriousness of those words by yourself. But I didn’t. I just clenched my teeth and fists. I swallowed several hot, bitter tears that burned my throat, leaving me speechless for the rest of the night.

You didn’t notice that either. Mechanically, without asking, you turned off the telly and left for the kitchen. I only managed to get up like a robot and go to our bedroom.

When you came to bed, I pretended to be asleep as an answer to your tempting invitations. It seemed as if your body (and only your body) realized that something was _entirely wrong_ with us. Your hands were looking for something beneath my skin, not knowing what to search for, but going insane while trying to reach _something_ they couldn't achieve.

Searching in my waist, searching in my chest ... they flew over my thighs and even snuck in my underwear, looking for any kind of hard confirmation. But there was none. With my back to you, I did not answer. Your hands failed. They found nothing, neither the painful void in my stomach nor the sorrowed lump in my throat.

You gave up, lifted a bit my hair and gently kissed my neck. And before the kiss could no longer be felt on my skin, you fell asleep, holding me close with your right arm.

You fell deep asleep, _rigor mortis_. The peace of those who have nothing to regret. You are still sleeping peacefully, and the rage slowly eats me up from inside. Because each of your words is still echoing in me, haunting like a demon every brain cell of my already messed up mind, drowning every hint of certainty.

_"You know me well enough to realize...”_

Of course, I know you too well. We’ve been together for two years now, Roger. I know you get all flirty when a woman is close. But I also know the things you hide from the rest of the world. I discovered a whole new Roger Meddows Taylor, one from the dark side of the moon. 

I know you hate my life before I met you, so you made up this non-existent past where I am a virgin princess, waiting for her knight in shining armour who deserves her virtue. I know you are extremely clumsy at cooking, that you don't enjoy casual sex as much as you pretend to, and that you love junk food. 

I also know that, from the day I touched you, you couldn't escape from me anymore. I can recognize your naive look, the way you move when you're anxious, your stupid patronizing laugh. I know how your lower lip trembles when you reach orgasm. I know too much about you. So much that hurts because it's like I’m getting closer to a very deep secret even I wouldn't like to know, blondie.

_“...that I avoid the issue...”_

What a surprise. You've always run away when things started to tight you up. When I met you, you were escaping from yourself. It’s what you are still doing. Because your stupid, empty words, stripped of any respect for what I might feel, were a result of the same old thing...

I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to take your hand, to go out and be free to express that you, Roger Taylor, are the one I love and the one who dearly loves me back. The man who spends every night with me, having a quick dinner, getting lost into endless talks and watching the telly. The man whom I share a bed with, like any other couple. The man with whom I make love with the conviction of every fiber in my body when the mood is in the right place.

But to you, it's more comfortable to say that we are _friends_. _Housemates_. _Roomies._ You name it, darling. 

When I try to hold your hand on a public place, you always push me back, awkwardly, and painfully, saying dryly "Fred, please don't start..."

 _Start_? Start what, Roger? I can’t start anything if you keep running away. I can’t if I have to handle your contradictions. How do I go forward when living in tension with you pulls me in and out once and again? No, I can't _start_ anything. I just want your hand. I don’t want to hide _us_ anymore. I want your _acceptance_. After two years, something tells me that I deserve it. _We both deserve it._

But you keep running away from the whole situation. And you do it in the worst way. You say those words as something meaningless as if you were telling me that you have coupons for my favourite bijou shop and that you have all your Saturday off just for me. You think that way everything is minimized or loses consistency. You have convinced yourself in a very frightenedly way that denying a relationship of two years is not such a bad or serious thing.

But it is, Roger. It is serious. 

Because neither Brian nor John, not even Clare believe we are just best mates anymore, and it has become pathetic to keep such a lie. 

Because I hate having to witness how women throw themselves at your feet because you keep saying that you're single. 

Because I hate living in your shadow, stuck in a game which I can't win but I also can’t lose. 

You'll understand at this point that I love you enough to bury my exaggerated ego, honey.

It becomes unbearable to be trapped in this emotional limbo where I can only hope that someday you’ll give me heaven or hell, as a sort of Cerberus.

_“...because I know you're right"_

And admitting it changes anything? No, darling, it changes _nothing_. It doesn't make you any better, either. It just makes you more contradictory and painful to me.

And you know what? This time, _I am right_. You should recognize what we are once and for all. Although it’s an open secret, I want to hear it from your own lips. I want your words rectifying what your body does. I want, with the strength of my whole body and soul, to feel that I'm yours outside these four walls. I wish you'd pass your arm quietly around my shoulders and, with a minimal gesture in your eyes, chase away any flirting look over me.

It's all I want, Rog. _All I need_. I gave you enough time.

And before I start drowning in my own anger and thinking of a thousand ways to torture you (like seducing other men, just to see if that can push you out of the closet or make you feel a bit more possessive over me), I surrender.

Simple as that. I give up. I sneak in your embrace and start to touch you shyly, to kiss you like the flight of a butterfly, until you wake up.

And you do. You awake from your cataleptic state just to make love to me; my touch burns on your fair skin and suddenly, you’re as awake as I am. Instinctively, you fit your body above mine and I anchor my legs around your waist.

Ironically, to drown your words in my mind, I need to be filled up by you. It is ironic how you are both the disease and the cure.

But I don't want to think anymore, Roger. I want you to fill everything with your arms, with your lips, with your trembling gasps in my ears. I want you to tell me, like the first time, that you can't stop touching my hair. I want you to whisper softly to me that my almond shape eyes drive you insane, just to make me happy.

Clinging to your back, I try to see in the contrast of my dark skin with yours, pale as a pearl, so pale that when I grab your shoulders a little stronger, they become capriciously pinkish.

My eyes are already accustomed to the dim light from the moon that filters through our window so, I can see you wide awake. Your lustful gaze upon my body is mesmerizing me. Your droopy, baby blue eyes are fixated on my lips and darling, it is not so hard to read your mind. My hands go from your shoulders to your nape and I cut the distance between us with a kiss. You moan deliciously inside my mouth and deepen the kiss, melting me in the process. I can feel your hands almost scratching my thighs and your bulge insistently rubbing against my crotch. The fabric of our pants is getting wet, and we both know that there is no use in keeping our underwear on anymore.

As gently as our need allows us, we break the kiss, and you untangle my legs. I take off my shirt and you almost rip off my pants. Naked and lying on our bed, I watch how devilishly beautiful you are, kneeling on the mattress, stripping under the moonlight. At moments like this, I remember why I can bare all your contradictions. 

You fit your body above mine again and your long, blond hair falls from your shoulders. 

“You’re so beautiful, babe”, you whisper as you take your right hand to my lips. You caress them and I open my mouth, welcoming your index and middle fingers inside. I lick them, tangling my tongue between them as you move them in and out. 

“Yeah, like that, love” your raspy voice is almost trembling “Lick them as if they were my cock.”

A soft moan slips from my throat, and you smile mischievously. I keep sucking and licking until you decide that is enough. A strain of saliva falls from one of the corners of my mouth and I spread my legs to you, almost desperately. I need you right now before the anger comes back and I blame myself for being so weak for you.

One of your hands caresses one of my inner thighs and the other, slide those wet fingers inside me so fast and relatively easy, that even I gasp in surprise.

“Oh, love…You were so fuckin’ ready for me” you almost growl, and I arch my back as soon as your fingers start to stretch me, going backwards and forward, making me desire you even more if such a thing is even possible.

You enjoy this so bad, darling. Your now dark pupils are dilated from the lust and your other hand goes slowly but steadily from my inner thigh to my throbbing hard cock. You start to pump me gently, but it is cynical being kind at this point. Because there is no mercy in your lust. And for God’s sake, darling, that is why I’m so addicted to you. To _us_.

“Rog, please… I just can’t… Please, I need _you_ ”, I say breathless, clinging to the black sheets with my hands.

“Ask properly, Fred…” you say with that raspy, signature voice of yours.

I know what you want. And believe me, blondie, I still can’t believe how you manage to surrender my ego so easily under your overwhelming presence. 

I moan louder; I just can’t take it anymore. 

“I want you to fuck me hard, Rog” I almost scream, and I swear to God that, even with my eyes shut, I can see you maliciously smiling.

Your fingers slip out from my inside and you anchor my legs around you. With a clean thrust, you enter me and we both cry from pleasure. I hate to admit that I feel at home every single time we make love. It’s insane how good you make me feel. 

“Fuck, you’re always so tight, babe” you gasp in my ear and I can feel how your thrusts become harder and deeper as our urge rises. I open my eyes and suddenly, I see you looking into my eyes, lips parted and panting. Oh, Roger… Are you aware of how bloody beautiful you are? 

“Love you, Fred. Love you so much” you say between gasps.

I melt. Electricity goes down my spine and I can’t contain myself anymore. I try to bridge the gap between us with a bunch of unintelligible "I love you's", violently scratching your back to make manifest my property upon you, even if it is in the most primitive way. My throbbing cock is rubbing against your stomach and the drops of your sweat made your belly so slippery, that I can’t hold it anymore. Neither can you.

Everything ends stupidly fast, with a growl from you, which stays entangled in my hair. Another "I love you", dry but sweet, paradoxically sincere, falls from your lips. You stay a little longer inside me and I don’t complain. There is such an intimacy surrounding the act of feeling your erection dying slowly inside me, Roger. Because I can fully feel _you_ becoming vulnerable, defenceless just for me. _Because of me_. As your member goes soft, your weakness awakes the tenderness in me. For a brief moment, I forget about our hidden relationship, your constant denial and my broken heart.

You give me a soft, sweet peck on the lips and move to my side. You grab your shirt from the floor and wipe the rest of my load in your stomach. It’s disgusting, dear. But I won’t say anything. I don’t have the strength, and I don’t care right now.

You come back to my side, capturing my waist with your arm and snuggling in my chest. I’m a mess but I don’t care. The echoes of the pleasure are still numbing my senses, as every time you take my breath away. But I won’t be fooled. I’m not okay.

_We are not okay, darling._

Because once I come back to reality, our reality, I’ll remember that nights like this are an oasis in a relationship that is becoming a desert of denial and shadows. The resentment comes back, and us making love is just a distraction. It seems that we only deserve to love each other in the dark, hidden from the world. And I’m not okay with that anymore, Roger. I can’t help being this mad at you, at me, at everything.

I chew my anger until I fall asleep. Gathering rage, pain, creating little by little some kind of homemade Molotov inside me that one day is going to blow up on top of us, leaving only the ashes of something that neither you nor I tried to stop from the beginning.

_Thanx to[Lily (suchalongaway76)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchalongaway76) for always being there, supporting all my fics and hearing without complaints all my WhatsApp voice notes :)_


	2. You take my breath away: part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I've decided that Take my breath away needed two more parts.  
> So, here is part II. I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> IMPORTANT:
> 
> This is a story about a toxic relationship. It's FICTION.  
> If you don't like angsty stories, don't read this. This is how I imagine Rog and Fred if they were into a pretty twisted and unhealthy relationship. Again, this is how *I* imagine them for THIS story.
> 
> This is NOT about how a relationship has to be. It's quite the opposite. 
> 
> SEE THE END FOR WARNINGS

**_ You take my breath away _ **

**_ Part II _ **

We live together, but we’re going to part ways after this night if you care enough about me. I wish for you to throw me out, insult me, even hit me. But under no circumstance I want you to be indifferent. Anything but that.

Let it be said that I planned everything. There won’t be excuses, Roger, because I don’t need them. I don’t want them. I don’t want to be excused.

It’s one of our places. Our people, the ones we always meet with. You insisted on coming here. I would have preferred to wait a little longer.

I should have told you, Rog: _Let’s wait a little longer_. But you wouldn’t understand, and if I had to explain my evil plan to you it would lose its charm. Cynical, you would think. ‘Desperate’ would be the more fitting adjective, I’d say.

And here we are. We sit and two gorgeous ladies approach our table. They ditch me in a minute, as always, and you charmingly keep talking to them.

_Yes, you come often._

_No, you don’t have a girlfriend._

_No, you’re not in a hurry._

And then you smile mischievously at them.

If I had any doubts or fears about what I’m going to do, the anger vanishes them. I stand up, swallowing my urge of splitting your head in two, three, thousands of pieces with the table. I kindly smile at both beauties and go to the bar.

Something strong. I need something strong. And a man. Anyone who can fill one single expectation: to not be you. And this old friend of yours, Dan, coming towards me with a glass of who-knows-what, kills two birds in one shot.

Maybe I shouldn’t mess with him, I think for a brief moment. Because I know him, and because you know him. Maybe that will hurt you more. But only thinking about it paints a wide smile over my face: having an affair with your friend will break your head, and I would have no need of breaking a table. It means I will share with you some of the resentment that eats up every little part of me. It’s only fair. At least for me, it’s an act of Solomonic justice.

After the second drink, I don’t care about anything else. Because you don’t even bother looking for me, and because this block starts to look so fucking tempting before my eyes.

After the third drink, my eyes start travelling, searching with a mischievous look what lies under the waist of this man that is not mine. At least, not mine for now. And you know what, darling? I think he realizes what I have in mind because he gets closer and begins to whisper names and places in my ear with no apparent reason. And I let him, because I’m starting a fourth drink feeling already a bit numb on my brain, and you still haven’t come after me.

I laugh uninterestingly at whatever Dan says. I fix the dirty blond hair that falls on his forehead and clinch strongly on his thigh when I get closer to him to whisper some unimportant comment about how lousy Tim’s new band is. Yes, he has noticed by now that I’m playing hide and seek. And I’m letting myself to be found.

“Freddie, you drank too much, mate. I’ll go with you to the bathroom so you can freshen up a little…” Dan says, laying his hand on my waist.

I laugh hard. ‘Freshen up’… A nice and almost classy way to say, ‘what about having a quick shag?’ He looks at me a bit embarrassed, knowing for sure by my simple laugh that I know what he really wants.

“Sure, let’s go”, I say, and before I can notice we are just a few steps from the bathroom. I wallow in my own crapulence when Deaks sees us going in. I meet his eye, and I even dare to smile at him. Though we never told him, I know _he knows_. His pity gaze over me every time you flirt shamelessly with a woman during our gig’s after-parties is tangible proof of _how much he knows_. And that’s why I know that he’s going after you, and that is exactly what I want him to do.

The adrenaline of what I’m about to do to you is getting in my head. Maybe it got me drunker than the alcohol could ever have, and even knowing that tomorrow I’ll regret this, I also know that I can’t stop now.

I went too far. I hit my point of no return, honey.

In the loo, a moron with tacky bleached hair fixes his clothes while humming some Led Zeppelin song that I can’t fully remember but I know you would. I make some time while washing my face. I get as wet as I can, and feel the little drops falling from my hair to my chest.

I know Deacy is looking for you. I know Dan is getting a radiography of me with his eyes, and all that arouses me. Being about to make you explode, maybe arouses me. Knowing that you may find me _actually doing it_ arouses me in every sense of it. Sick? Maybe. But it’s not all my fault. Is not that I truly want to do this. This is what _you’ve driven me to do,_ darling.

Finally, the idiot with fake blond hair finishes to fix himself in front of the mirror and leaves us alone. There’s no need to say much because with my still wet hands I push Dan into the last cubicle in the bathroom and lock us up. Anyone can go in now because I already got him trapped.

I violently push him, making him sit on the loo, and straddle him, taking his breath away with a rough kiss, sinking my fingers in his cheeks as I’m shutting my eyes. I must act fast, before any stupid sensibility makes me run out of the bathroom, walk like a zombie back to you, and make all my evil and Machiavelli plan go to waste. You know, it’s like throwing yourself into a pool of cold water: you have to do it quickly and straight because going slowly into it will fill you with doubts and regret. And I don’t want to doubt or regret this now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll let myself, but not now.

I won’t lie to you, Rog. Beyond the luridness born out of resentment, and beyond you being the reason for all this, I enjoy it. Because if I have to be honest, every millimetre of Dan’s body is desirable. His lips seem too kissable, especially when I imagine you’ll find us, and then a new wave of lust makes me ferociously devour them. His hands are grasping my waist underneath my clothes and I moan inside his mouth as my fingers are entangling on his nape. I can’t do much more than be still for him, because his urgency is too much to process. Who would say that an hour and a half of talk and alcohol could enclose so much fire and desperation?

Suddenly, and not knowing exactly how (maybe because the alcohol, the adrenaline, the whimpers and the strong music in the background makes everything into a dream-like cloud), I have no jeans anymore, straddling on top of Dan. And without asking, my hands fight to unzip his jeans. I sloppily finish the quest, because it’s hard to make correct moves when the urge of someone else is taking you down with them.

Dan makes me lick his fingers just like you do, darling. But he’s rough. It’s alright, though: I don’t want mercy. I don’t deserve it, as much as I don’t deserve walking by your side. I deserve darkness, and where there is no light, there is no kindness. I truly believe that. Or at least, that’s what you and your denial taught me, Roger.

I can feel now those wet fingers trying to stretch me quickly, and it hurts. But not as much as you may think. My body is used to this so I can’t really complain. It’s more like a pinch that ends up being pleasurable. Well, pain is close to pleasure, and we are the live proof of that, aren’t we, darling?

Dan decides that two minutes of stretching and kissing is enough, and I don’t contradict him. In fact, I also think that is enough: I don’t want to wait anymore. He takes a condom from his pocket. It’s being a long time since I saw one. I mean, we barely use them, it’s normal that I’m not used to them anymore. I think it’s a clear sign to Dan as soon as he looks at my facial expressions while looking at it. But that doesn’t stop him. And it doesn’t stop me either, because in less time than I think, we’re immersed in a vertical movement we can’t stop.

I think I scream more than I use to. Maybe is because of the booze, I don’t know. But Dan, panting, covers my mouth with one of his hands while the other one tightens my hip. Seized to his shoulders I keep the motion… But the intensity is too much, and if he insists on covering my mouth, I have no choice but biting his hand.

And I can’t think anymore. Not even about why I’m here, doing this with this guy. I can only think of the shots of pain and pleasure I get every time I go down, and of the voice that constantly calls my name in between moans, which is clearly Dan’s, and not yours. Because it is _him_ who’s filling me; it’s _him_ who’s covering this cubicle with whispers and moans; it’s _him_ who’s tearing up my hips and drowning my screams.

_Not you, darling._

But I can’t connect all that lust and pleasure to Dan at all. No, I can’t. It’s more like I feel immersed in a spiral of onanist desire, where I don’t care about anything but reaching my climax and scrub it in your face, Roger. To show you my relaxed face after pleasure, and for you to be painfully aware that you are not responsible for it. That someone else did your job, with my consent and without your permission.

I let myself fall on Dan more strongly, biting his hand until it bleeds and looking straight to his eyes as my orgasm comes unexpectedly, ruining a shirt that my current lover will surely have to wash, or dump. With my body already relaxed and the traces of the climax still throbbing on my chest, I wait. One, two, three thrusts more shake me; deep yet distant thrusts that I can’t connect to my body. A foreign orgasm explodes inside me, along with a growl that carries my name and a hand that out of inertia keeps bleeding on my mouth.

And we stay panting for a minute or two until Dan, finally using both hands on my hips, helps me to get up. We fix ourselves as much as we can: me, dizzy thanks to a pseudo-drunkenness left by the alcohol and the orgasm; him, with a little more strength. I feel his eyes on my neck: maybe because of his hand. He cleans with toilet paper the blood that’s still coming out a bit.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, sorry”, it’s all I can mumble. He only smiles with a strange glimmer on his eyes that I can recognize too well. Risking being called insensitive, I tell him while I zip up my trousers:

“It was very good for a one-night shag, if you know what I mean, darling”.

Dan’s smile falls a bit, and he nods, making up a fake cool face. It’s better this way. It wouldn’t be good for him to get close to me. First, because (even if at this point it sounds sick) I love you. Secondly, because even if I could return the feeling, I wouldn’t be enough. As always.

I can’t tide myself up too well, so my blouse remains half open and my hair is still messy. And my bite and words have intimidated Dan well enough for him to try and help me.

We get out of the bathroom, and that’s when my evil plan comes to a close and concretes itself, just as perfect as I imagined. There you are, Roggie, a few steps from the bathroom, with Deacy and Brian at your both sides. There’s no need to draw you a picture, and no need for one to Dan either. He takes both hands to his head and mumbles “Shit…” which is just as eloquent.

And pay attention, blondie, because this is the most beautiful part of this story.

You grab me by the arm with violence from Dan’s side, all red from anger, and drag me outside, to an alley at the back of the exclusive pub. You throw me furiously against the wall and my head starts rolling stronger. I meet your eyes while raising my head, smiling sarcastically at you. That only angers you more, and you grab the neck of my not-so-immaculate-anymore white blouse, ripping it. You motion to hit me in the face, but then your fingers start to being loose, forceless around my shirt and your fist lowers in defeat. And as your strength goes down, your tears are increasing.

I’m disarmed. I wasn’t ready for this, Taylor. Not for seeing you crying in this unbearably sincere way. I thought violence would be your way of exploding. Not this painful, paused, and quiet crying that turns a knife inside of me, right in the middle of my guts.

“Why?” you ask with your hands now hanging from my shirt, as in a mix of surrender and defeat.

It’s not fair, Roger. That’s not how you were supposed to react, darling.

Once again here you are, smashing, ripping off my plan as you always do. Because I would have tolerated you calling me a whore, a slut, a son of a bitch, or any other thing. I was prepared and that was what I expected. But this reaction of yours is blowing me away. You are making me feel like I have just made the worst mistake of my life.

Oh, boy. What a bitter plot twist this is.

“Because I wanted to”, I lie with tears in my eyes.

It’s stupid lying to you because in your eyes I can see you understand. You know exactly what I just did. That I was settling debts. A wicked, twisted, and one-sided settling.

“Hit me, it’s fine”, I almost chime to you with some desperation in my voice.

I need you to do it. I’d rather have that than having you in front of me completely broken, ripped to pieces because of me.

I sincerely wonder to myself how much more toxic than this we can be.

“No, Fred… I can’t… I can’t hit you… I just can’t”, you mumbled and your voice trembles as your tears keep falling from your big, baby blue eyes. You release me, stepping back.

You and your bloody self. You and your damn contradiction of treasuring me and denying me at the same time, until the very bloody end of this. _Of us._

You walk away from me, in silence, like a robot, disappearing at the end of the alley. No need to say tonight you won’t go home. Nor tomorrow, much less the day after.

Alone, I remain with my back resting against the wall, under a weak, yellowish light that fills all this filthy place.

Unfairly, you have taken a piece of my existence when you left.

And my only comfort is that the piece you took from me carried in it a bit of the resentment I felt every damned time you denied me, _and us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> *Rough sex (a bit).  
> *Cheating.  
> *Angsty and toxic characters.  
> *Low self-esteem.
> 
> If you liked this, please comment and/or leave a kudo. It means A LOT to me :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


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